


Prayer

by kyril (CrownlessAgain)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dark, Frottage, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Necrophilia, Oral Sex, Top Katsuki Yuuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 01:13:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11933235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrownlessAgain/pseuds/kyril
Summary: This is a story about Katsuki Yuuri engaging in necrophilia. If the idea of Katsuki Yuuri engaging in necrophilia does not appeal to you, please do not read this story.





	Prayer

“I want to see him,” Yuuri tells the mortician for the second time.

The old man swallows. His long fingers tremble, and his eyes are fixed over Yuuri’s shoulder, on the reporters swarming against the locked doors of the funeral home, the flashes of their cameras illuminating the soft morning gloom. To Yuuri, their voices sound like distant cicada shrieks.

“Sir, the body isn’t ready for viewing,” the mortician mumbles. “The funeral will be—“

“He has a name _._ Victor Nikiforov.” Blood pounds in Yuuri’s ears. He’s tired, so very tired. “ _I want to see him._ ”

“Sir…”

“I’ll sue you.” Yuuri barely know what he’s saying anymore. Only the terrible need to see Victor remains. “I know people. I can leave you homeless. Let me see him.”

The mortician withers under Yuuri’s gaze. “Left and down the corridor,” he whispers. “Second door.”

“Give me an hour. Make sure nobody bothers me.” The tips of Yuuri’s fingers tingle, as if he’d sat on them for a long time.

“I want to pray with him,” he lies.

 

The first thing that Yuuri notices is the cold. He shivers beneath his thick coat and the scarf that had been so useless at hiding his face. The second is the whiteness. Not the bright, hopeful white of fresh snow, rather the white of a painting erased with turpentine. It spreads across the tiled floor and the ceiling. Over the coats hanging in the corner, the ceramic sink and the bottle of disinfectant. It covers the figure on the steel table in a succubus' embrace.

Yuuri moves towards that table like a moth towards a flame.

The white cloth is damp to the touch, with a sharp smell like rubbing alcohol. Yuuri’s hands shake as he takes a corner and pulls. The accident hadn’t even been bad, he’d been told. The drunk driver who had hit Victor during his evening jog had been driving well under the speed limit. It had been just a light bump, just a few broken ribs. The promise of a tedious week in hospital and a year away from competitions. Or it would have been, if one of the broken ribs hadn't pierced Victor's heart. A one in ten million case, the pathologists had said. Something that medical students were told shouldn't happen.

But Victor was a one in ten million man.

Victor's eyes are closed, as if in sleep. His features are set in a peaceful expression, his lips slightly open. His hair is dishevelled, delicate strands falling across his high forehead in a silver veil. With a hand that's heavy as lead, Yuuri reaches out to brush them to the side. Victor's skin is cold and damp, and the way it yields under Yuuri's fingers is all wrong.

"Victor." Yuuri works the name over his tongue like a block of chocolate. The taste of it takes away some of the numbness, and he smiles. "You didn't show up for training this morning, so I started to worry. Did you forget? That's not like you, you know." He places a hand on Victor's forehead. Instead of his own living flesh giving off heat, the cold seeps into his fingers. "Victor, I don't think you realise just how serious I am about this. Maybe I wasn't before, but I am now. I won't eat katsudon. I'll get into the Grand Prix Final. I'll really win gold this time, I'll..." His voice breaks. "Please, Victor." Tears burn the corners of his eyes. "Vic--"

The name sticks in his throat, and for the first time since the accident was announced on the evening news, he weeps. Blinded by his grief he collapses onto the steel table, his forehead against Victor's. He's cold, so very cold, and now that Yuuri can smell his skin, he finds that hospital smell etched into it too. But the lashes that tickle Yuuri's cheek are _Victor's_ lashes, and the feeling is so natural, so alive that it cuts him to the core. Victor's lips are soft and velvety against Yuuri's chin.

Yuuri does the only thing that still makes sense, and kisses him.

Victor tastes sharp and bitter and venomous. The rigidity of his jaw forces Yuuri to be content with rubbing his lips and tongue against Victor's, but still, excitement blossoms in his chest. Tender and gentle, not like the intoxicating rush had that threatened to knock him off his feet when he first saw Victor at the onsen. Even that memory will be tainted now, Yuuri thinks. Victor's lips are cold and toxic, but they keep him grounded. Keep him tethered to the edge of the cliff that will yawn beneath him the moment his exhausted mind finally understands that _Victor is dead._

When he pulls away, Victor's lips are as pale as they were before. But they glisten all the same. Yuuri presses a soft kiss to Victor's forehead, running his fingers through Victor's hair to part it in Victor's signature style. It's really a crime, the mess the morticians made out of it. It smells more neutral than Victor's skin, as if resisting the embalming process, still clinging to some faint scrap of life intangible to all but itself. That hair had always seemed to live outside of Victor, coiling in a seductive dance of its own when he jumped, caressing his sweat-slick face as he posed for photos. More mesmerising than Medusa's locks. Yuuri had heard stories of hair continuing to grow after death. Would Victor's grow long enough to reach his toes, giving him a bed of silver to rest on?

Yuuri's elbow catches on the edge of the cloth, tugging it down to Victor's collarbones. Why shouldn't he pull it down further? Victor had always been generous with his body, never shy of his own beauty. Surely Yuuri is entitled to this, after all the plans that went to waste? He grasps the corners of the cloth and pulls it down to Victor's waist.

Immediately, his heart starts to pound and his vision darkens. Unlike his placid face, Victor's body is marked by the horror of what had been done to him. All the skin between his collarbones and navel is one purple-grey bruise, rimmed with yellow around the edges. His ribs have buckled up in some places and collapsed in others. But the worst are the incisions that extend from Victor's shoulders, meeting between his nipples to run vertically down his belly, curving in a slight detour around his navel and disappearing beneath the cloth.

Rage burns in Yuuri's chest, and he grabs the edge of the table to steady himself. The morticians had no right to mutilate Victor like this, no right to cut through the muscles that carried him to so many victories. Yuuri throws the cloth onto the floor, needing to see just how terribly they have treated him. Mercifully, the incision stops just above Victor's pubic mound. The skin there is smooth and hairless, Yuuri notices. Heat coils in his belly. With trembling hands, he reaches out to stroke the soft skin of Victor's cock. It's wrong, but _all of this_ is wrong.  Yuuri slides his hand up and down Victor's thigh. Tiny hairs prickle his skin. Underneath, the muscle is still firm. Victor must have shaved his legs a few days ago. Had he known that he was doing it for the last time? Victor had always seemed to know things Yuuri did not. Unbidden, Victor's sly smile at the last Grand Prix rises up in Yuuri's mind. Victor had _known_ that it would be their last photo opportunity together, and Yuuri had walked away.

Yuuri puts his hands on Victor's hipbones to steady himself. If he lets go for just a moment, he knows that his mind will break. He's painfully hard in his jeans, his body not understanding why Victor's gone so still. He mustn't think. He mustn't walk away this time. Yuuri slides Victor's body down so that his legs hang off the table, and straddles  a shapely thigh. His fingers trip over each other as he pulls down his fly. His cock slips out of his underwear. When it bumps against Victor's skin, white fire scorches every nerve in his body. He bends down and kisses along the ivory column of Victor's neck, chasing the scent of blood, the delicate blue veins that lie so stark beneath the skin. Perhaps some animal part of his brain still believes that heat might linger there. He bites down over Victor's jugular, then sucks on the skin, tongue dipping into the indentations made by his teeth. Victor is _his_ , made his by virtue of his love, by the desperate act of surrender he'd made that night at the empty rink. Yuuri grinds himself against Victor, shameless as a dog, aroused to the point of leaking.

Victor's skin gives way beneath his teeth; his right hand slips between Victor's legs, tugging Victor's soft cock roughly until the foreskin retracts to reveal the rosy head. With their cocks side by side, Yuuri is again reminded of Victor's perfection. Victor's is longer and thicker, and where Yuuri has an unruly patch of black curls, Victor has bare skin, the same lovely blend of pink and white as the rest of him. The colours remind Yuuri of the carnations Victor had worn in his hair during one of his earliest routines. One of them had tumbled from his hair to lie, withered and forgotten, on the ice. After the competition, the cleaners had swept it onto a steel tray so much like the one beneath Victor.

Lifting  his head from Victor's neck, Yuuri gathers saliva in his mouth, spits on his right hand, and returns it to Victor's cock. He rubs his thumb in Victor's dry slit, tugs the foreskin up and down so hard that it would probably hurt, hard enough for the limp flesh to grow hot with friction as Victor's thigh grows slick beneath him. In a few hours, Victor's family and coach will stand where Yuuri stood. They will weep and stroke Victor's hair, perhaps try to uncurl his rigid fingers as they kiss his hands. They will tell him of their love and sorrow, but nothing will change the fact that Yuuri was here first. No effort from the morticians will erase Yuuri's marks from Victor's body. The thought makes Yuuri groan in delight. The fact that somebody might hear doesn't matter. All that matters is that Victor was _here_ , Victor chose _him_ , Victor had existed and Yuuri had loved him.

Yuuri had loved him more than they ever could.

The wet warmth and the obscene sound of skin against skin is enough to drive him over the edge, and he crashes his lips against Victor's as his climax sears his nerves. With his mind blinded by sparks of ecstasy and his body twisted around Victor's, Yuuri can almost forget what's cum and what's spit, which of them is twitching in pleasure and which voice is crying out. His hand stills as if by its own accord, its movements becoming gentle and firm as if stroking Victor through his own orgasm. The heat of Yuuri's body as he spurts against Victor's thigh seems enough for two.

When Yuuri pulls away, panting, he sees that the bite mark on Victor's neck is white and bloodless. Victor's cock rests in the crease of his thigh, too pale, too limp to account for the splatters of white across his skin.

It isn't enough.

Yuuri's cock juts awkwardly from his jeans, half-hard and dripping. As a teenager he could make himself cum many times a night, but only if he was looking at Victor. Victor in the white shirt that exposed his collarbones and rose in tiny peaks over his nipples. Victor cuddling Makkachin with his hair winding around his shoulders and his eyes narrowed in delight. And now Victor bruised and cut up, silenced forever along with all the promises he had made.

Bending down, Yuuri licks a stripe up Victor's cock, from the base where it meets the swells of his testicles to the tip. And perhaps he's imagining it, or tasting the residue of his own passion, but as he fans the taste across his tongue, he can feel something else there, something that isn't embalming fluid and cloth and latex. Something salty and musky and uniquely Victor's. Yuuri licks him again and again, wanting to gather up every last bit of whatever it is, devour it and trap it inside himself forever.

He seals his lips around the head of Victor's cock and sucks, then slides his head down until his nose presses into the incision on Victor's lower belly. The rough cut smells of alcohol and iron. Even soft, that cock is big enough to hit the back of Yuuri's throat and make him gag. He bobs up and down a few times, imagining Victor's hands in his hair, Victor's voice moaning _Yuuri_... as hot liquid fills his mouth. It hurts to imagine these things, so Yuuri lets Victor's cock fall from his mouth with a wet _pop!_ and moves down to Victor's scrotum. He takes one testicle into his mouth, then the other, finding more of that sweet secret taste there. His heart stills in his chest as he places his hands on Victor's inner thighs and pushes them apart.

Their rigidity once again reminds Yuuri that this isn't a nightmare. Victor's body is stiff and unwieldy in death as it could never have been in life, when he'd flown over the ice as though made of shimmering smoke and water, or when he'd first risen naked from the bath for Yuuri. He'd imagined finding Victor to be flexible as a cat; parting his thighs gently and swinging his long legs over his shoulders. Never like this, never prising his legs apart with a vicelike grip. But Yuuri cannot stop himself, pulling and shoving, his fingers leaving deep dents in Victor's skin and muscle. Bones and ligaments slide unnaturally beneath Yuuri's hands; something cracks deep within, but he persists, huffing and sweating. Another crack and Victor lies spread open for him.

His head spins as he dives into the tiny pink furl between Victor's thighs, dragging the flat of his tongue over the puckered flesh, spreading the taut skin open with his fingers, slipping his tongue as far inside Victor as it can go. He's tight, his muscles locked in death, so Yuuri can barely breach his entrance no matter how hard he pushes. The taste here is different, stronger and saltier, somehow filthy and rotten. But Yuuri drinks it in like the sweetest ambrosia, wondering if anyone has ever gotten this close to Victor. How many men have made him moan and scream with their cocks and clumsy hands, pawing and drooling all over his body. Anger, glorious and invigorating, swells inside Yuuri. He bites Victor's inner thigh just shy of his hole. Every part of Victor is his and his alone now, even this.

Rising to stand between Victor's legs, Yuuri barely sees the cuts and bruises and broken bones as he positions his cock at Victor's entrance. Perhaps the anger is keeping him sane. Perhaps it's taken his sanity already. He pushes inside, knowing only the need to prove something and being unable to say what exactly. Victor's so tight that it hurts but Yuuri persists, entering him inch by agonizing inch until his balls press flush against Victor's ass. Victor's insides hold him in a relentless grip, but he lets the pain carry him ahead the way he does when his feet are bleeding and his muscles are stretched to breaking point, pulling almost all the way out and slamming back in.

The force of his thrusts jolts Victor's body  awkwardly, head hanging over the edge of the table. So Yuuri gathers him into his arms as he fucks him, finding him terrifyingly light. Victor's back is wet with embalming fluid and the crushed bones in his chest creak and slide against Yuuri, but with his hands clasped at Victor's spine, Yuuri no longer has to look at the destruction of his body. Another thrust makes Victor's head loll backwards at an ugly angle, so Yuuri digs the nails of his left hand into the small of Victor's back and uses the right to press Victor's head against his shoulder.

Even with all that effort, it's still wrong. Each thrust makes Victor's hips slide back against the slippery table, forcing Yuuri to let go of his head periodically to correct his position. Frustration builds in Yuuri, clashing with his previous anger in lurid fireworks. His fingernails puncture Victor's skin, digging into the fat and flesh beneath. Something tears beneath his cock in a gush of cold liquid. Letting Victor's body sink back in his arms he bites down on Victor's nipple, teeth worrying at the small bud until embalming fluid fills his mouth. He spits onto the metal table, biting at the left arm of the Y-incision above Victor's nipple instead. Stitches burst and skin parts beneath his teeth. He wants to hurt Victor, he realizes. He feels as if he's throwing himself against a glass wall with Victor, the _true_ Victor, laughing on the other side. Perhaps if he tears at Victor enough, Victor will scream and struggle and push him away, call him a sick freak, a perverse rapist, a failure at living, and Yuuri will fall to his knees and thank him.

Anything would be better than the silence.

Yuuri's eyes overflow. Sobbing, he draws Victor back into his arms and pretends harder than he's ever pretended in his life. Pretends that the press of Victor's thighs around his waist is Victor pulling him closer; that the dampness of his skin is the sweat of arousal. That the doll-like jerking of Victor's body is Victor meeting his thrusts, throwing his head back to cry out Yuuri's name. That the rigor mortis stiffness of Victor's insides is Victor clenching around him as he orgasms.

That Victor wants this.

That Victor ever loved him.

Yuuri collapses boneless on top of Victor, shaking with sobs. His seed leaks out of Victor, mixed with some rusty fluid. Through a veil of tears, he watches it make its way down the sloping surface of the table, towards the drain in the centre. _It's not enough._ It's not enough to love Victor for all these years, and then have to settle for something like this. It's not enough to make love to Victor's corpse.

Or maybe it is. Maybe it's enough that Victor showed himself in Yuuri's life at all, blazing across Yuuri's sky like a comet, and that Yuuri had had the chance to love him. The thought calms him as he takes a shuddering breath and kisses Victor, gentle this time, caressing Victor's bruised and bitten lips with his own. Either way, something tells Yuuri that this is the last thing he will ever do for Victor. A final prayer, of sorts.

One last, complete surrender.

Yuuri wraps his arms around the man he had loved, and does not let go even when a stranger begins to pull him away.


End file.
